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2014-03-30 - And for My Next Trick...: Papa's Problem
o/` It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that swing, shibob a skiddlidoo bop bop... o/` Jazz plays from the stage. Of course, almost all the musicians are dead-- but that means little in this joint. Welcome to Midnite's. The front side looks like a nightclub, all neon and loud music. And it /is/ a nightclub, of course, run by the eponymous Papa Midnight: gang leader, voodoo priest, scam artist, immortal finger-waggler, or occult thug... depending on who you talk to. It's just not your average nightclub. Firstly, it's open twenty-four hours a day and night. The bar never closes, and somehow, he never gets fined for selling liquor after citywide last call. Secondly, the mundanes will think most of the patrons are costumed-- or, since the merge, perhaps mutants-- as many don't precisely look human. But for whatever reason, those without the touch of the occult seem to find this perfectly acceptable while within the bounds of the building. Thirdly? Electronics like cell phones for some reason tend to lose signal randomly and go somewhat haywire. It's the wiring in the building, of course, you know how old buildings are... Fourthly, the place seems somehow larger on the inside than the building seems to have room to hold: especially considering that there's a pair of doors behind the bar that lead to a back area that only 'members' can go. And the two beefy, scowling bouncers on either side of those doors seem perfectly content to enforce that. The rules, for those of an occult bent, are simple, and swiftly enforced with ejection, or in some extreme cases, summary execution: No fighting. No spell-casting without Papa's leave. No sneaking into the back. No feeding on the mundanes without permission. Papa Midnight sits on his throne... yes, his throne, a large, gilt chair in the VIP area overlooking the dance floor and the stage. He drums dark fingers bedecked in rings of gold, silver, platinum and precious gems on the arm of the throne. A purple homburg hat with a zebra striped band rests on his head; a matching suit with a black shirt on his body, white necktie loosened just so. He's a devilishly handsome man-- emphasis on the devil-- and his entire being seems to ooze a certain sort of cocky confidence that can only come from /knowing/ he owns the room. Except today, those drumming fingers, that slouching position in his throne? Something is wrong. Very wrong, in Midnight's world. He doesn't like things being anything less than perfect. And he /really/ doesn't like having to bring in outside help on his problems. Especially /this/ kind of outside help. Having just come in from Malibu, and securing a very interesting - and dangerous - little trinket from potentially falling into the wrong hands, Jason finds himself stepping into the back with a nod from the bouncers. An invitation from Papa Midnite, at the very least, was an unusual thing. And worth looking into on it's own, if nothing else to satisfy his curiousity. In his casual fare, the well-built man moves up to the other immortal, hands tucked neatly into his pockets. He studies the dark man for a long quiet moment, offers, "I got your message." "Oi," a voice comes from the entrance to the VIP. "Watch yer hands there, mate." Ah, John. For whatever reason, the bouncers are giving him a patdown before allowing him into Papa's presence. From the smirk on Midnight's face, probably more to annoy the blonde man than anything else. He nods to Jason, and gestures to John as the man slinks in, hands thrust in his pockets, a scowl twisting his lips. "Wotcha want, Midnight?" Constantine asks. "Got yer ruddy invitation-- coupla blokes stuffin' me inta one of yer limos right offa 64th street. Helluva way ta say hi." He pulls a pack of Silk Cut from within his trenchcoat, tapping one out and lighting it. "Mind if I smoke?" he asks in that tone that indicates he's bloody well going to anyway. Midnight chuckles darkly. "Constantine. Blood. Good of you to join me." "I got a letter," suggests Jason, looking sideways to John. But then, Jason's not the problem child that John is, either. As he's not bothered by the proposition of smoking, he looks back to Papa Midnite. There's a polite nod, "You wouldn't invite me if it weren't something important," points out Jason, rather needlessly. "What did you call us here for?" The fact that Midnite has not only sought help, but sought it from Constantine, and himself speaks volumes as well. "If I had sent you a letter, Constantine," Midnight intones, "You'd have just ignored it." John shrugs with that 'well, of course, but what would you expect?' sort of shrug. Midnight shakes his head. "There is a problem," he says. His voice is deep and rich, and despite the centuries of time he's spent in the area, there's still a hint of a Jamaican accent to his tone, though only the slightest of hints. "Normally, I would just let it be-- what preys on the white folk is fine by me-- but this is going to start cutting into my business." And ain't nothing allowed to cut into Papa's business. John lets out a short scoff. "You may talk your big game, Papa, but you enjoy your immortality." He shrugs, flipping some of the ash onto the floor. "So what's eating you? Or rather, your patrons?" Midnight shoots Constantine a glare. "Not that simple. There's been some strange activity throughout the city lately. My sources say it's not just here-- but people are disappearing. Here one moment, gone the next. Missing persons reports are stacking up, but something I've noticed about the ones around /here/ disappearing, at least? Several of my regulars." "Ah," considers Blood, wryly. -That- makes sense. "Someone is targeting you." He takes his hands out of his pockets, "A sound strategy, if that's the case." The man nods slowly, "And you don't want to show your cards yet. You want us," he exchanges a look between John, and Papa Midnite, "To flush it out for you. That the sum of it?" Papa chuckles. "Targeting me, perhaps. But I'm hearing similar stories out of Chicago, and Los Angeles, and London." He shrugs. "Seems like mundanes that have become, shall we say, frequent travellers on the occult express, are disappearing." He gives them both level looks. "Mundanes coming here, whether in ignorance or for thrills, keep me in a life of luxury that I am loathe to lose. Besides," he points out, "whatever is 'eating' magic soaked non-magicians probably isn't something either of you two want wandering the streets, hmm?" He drums his fingers again. "So, help me, and help yourselves. I want my business running smoothly again. You want to save the world-- you're both the bleeding heart types. Seems like we could work together on this." John snorts. "Sounds bloody lovely. How come this is the first I've been hearin' of it?" Jason considers this, then finally merely nods, once. "Very well. I'll help you, Midnite. Not just because it's the right thing to do, but also because I know that in turn, you'll do me the favor of letting me know when you hear something, anything, about Morgan Le Fae. Since, afterall, we're doing each other favors." Information? That's what Midnite deals in. And while Jason's a mostly generous man, he's not a fool, either. Still, he manages to word it as a friendly exchange, rather than bartering help for information. There's a glance, then, towards John. Curious. Midnight smirks. Ah yes. Information brokering. He thought it might come to this. But he likes Blood, after a fashion-- the man is older than Midnight himself, and there is a strange sort of comradery among the cursed. "I could do that," he agrees. "If the stubborn bitch shows her face again and I hear of it, of course." John finishes his cigarette and pulls out a second one, stubbing the butt of the first out on the railing-- as if he's purposely needling Papa Midnight. Which he likely is. "You know I'll help," humanity's self-appointed champion snarks with irritation. "But you'll owe me," he points at Midnight, a serious expression on his face. "And I think this puts me ahead by three in favors now, Midnight." Papa shrugs. "Something like that," he agrees wryly. "So," implores Jason, mildly, shifting to make himself comfortable, "What more do you know, beyond the disappearances?" Jason's certain the man is at least, or had been, withholding a bit of information until he was secure that they'd help. And Midnite was a man who was far from clueless, or helpless. But then, he's no detective, either. Midnight settles back into his throne. "It's not vampires," he says simply. "Or anything else I can find that actually 'eats' people." He shrugs. "The best information I've managed is literally, people disappear. It doesn't happen inside one of these establishments, but certainly within a few blocks, and always when no one is looking at the person taken. Or disappeared. Or disingrated." He sighs. "I don't have much to go on-- and I can't leave here for several weeks." When John shoots him a curiously look, Midnight lifts a brow. "I'm resetting the wards on the place. Requires my personal attention." Constantine seems mollified by that explanation, nodding some. "We'll look into it." Some information, afterall, is better than none. Even if it is merely disqualifying certain potential culprits. A measured, wry smile to John. "Looks like you get to partner with me again. Aren't you lucky." Still, the man seems tolerant enough the way the pieces have been set into motion. He looks back to Papa Midnite. "Got any names, of the disappeared parties? It's a place to start." Papa Midnight reaches into his suit jacket, pulling out a folded piece of paper and handing it to Jason. "All the names that I have," apparently he was expecting that question. "As for anything else-- if I find out, I'll be in touch." The man rises from his throne. "If you'll excuse me, I have a few deliveries to sign for." As Midnight departs, John lets out a low whistle. "Sommat's got his knickers in a twist. You wanna play detective and look up names, feel free," John says. "I might take a bit of a wander 'round the neighborhood, see what nasties I can scare up." Much like Jason, John isn't particularly a team player. Must be an occult thing. You don't see many powerful magicians or occultists with partners. "I'll see what I can fathom," concedes Jason, "Find a connection. Or a reason. Things like this seldom occur randomly." He tips his head to John. "I'll be in touch, if I have something." There's a pause, and he hands John a simple business card; it only has his name on it. But, there's a small spell about the thing, allowing anyone who has any magical training to perceive the Gotham address layered under the name. "Do the same, should you find something of interest." Constantine pockets the business card after a quick glance at it. "Right. Well..." and he glances at the bouncers. "Mind givin' me a lift back where ya got me from?" he asks. "Was in the middle of something, after all." He flashes his most winning smile, grinding the end of his second cigarette out on the railing and flicking the butt onto the floor below. The bouncers scowl, but open the door leading back down the stairs and escort the two occultist out.